Fleeting Moments
by BeyondTheHorizonIsHope
Summary: In the midst of war, Robb Stark found a small moment of peace. It could not last, she would never be his, but that did not stop him from falling. Oneshot.


This is a little oneshot that has been begging me to write it for a while now, so I broke down and did so. Now, I could actually make this into a story, or it could stay a oneshot. It's up to you! And if you didn't notice already, I really have a thing for giving all my OCs Ys in their names...*shrug*

I own nothing, except my OC. Everything else belongs to the unbelievable George R. R. Martin (though I'm open for negotiation to purchase the rights to Robb Stark or Jon Snow. Call me George!)

I hope you enjoy it.

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**Fleeting Moments**

Even with the fire roaring in the hearth, close enough that the heat was practically slapping him in the face and the blankets pulled tight, so thickly layered that it covered his body in a thin layer of sweat, Robb Stark was cold. But the chill in his bones did not come from the frigid weather, rather the dawning realization of what was to happen come morning. He stared deeply into the flames, looking for counsel, but they gave him nothing. All he saw were images of war and death and the crackling started to sound more like the clash of steel with every passing moment. Those were the last things he wished to see and hear. They haunted him enough in his dreams.

A body shifted next to him.

Robb looked down, concerned he had done something to disturb her sleep but all she did was turn over and doze right back off, her face resting comfortably on his bare chest. He almost smiled as he watched her dream, a not so distant part of him longing for the images that played in her mind when he finally closed his eyes.

Her deep brown locks had finally been tamed when he first came to her that evening under the cover of darkness, but now they were wild once again, flowing tangles that covered both their bodies. She felt so much smaller now in his arms, but by no means weak. This was no lady of the court. Her hands were just as calloused as his, for she knew a hard day's work as well as he, and somehow that had made her touch all the sweeter. Her tongue lacked all forms of eloquence, but he found himself hanging on every word, instead of idly nodding out of pure civility. And the way she acted…

…well, he could not quite recall if it had been the bow or her elbow that had smashed into his jaw when he first met her. To be fair, he had snuck from behind and attempted to disarm her. It was either that or finding out if Theon could keep that infamous cocky grin of his with a quiver in his chest. There was not a doubt in his mind that his friend deserved it, but dead wards would do no one any good. If he moved his mouth in just the right way, Robb could still feel where she had struck him. Oddly, he found it entertaining.

He moved a strand from her face, noting how her eyes twitched in her sleep. Part of him wanted to wake her just so he could see them again. They were the color of the countryside, a deep green that stood out greatly against her pale skin. Sometimes when she looked at him, it took all his strength to not become lost in her gaze. That was a technique the ladies of court longed to learn and here in some small village at the base of a hill, a farmer's daughter had perfected it.

Her name was Feylin. Whether she was a Rivers or a Hill depended on who was asking. For Robb Stark, The King In The North, she was Feylin Rivers; for the boy of ten and eight who in only a few days had thrown aside every inhibition and given his all to this girl, she was Feylin Hill. He preferred the sound of it. And after all, what was a name?

His frown deepened. Only she could make him feel like a hypocrite. That seemed to be her only task since they first spoke on the mud pool her family liked to call a field. Despite how he acted, there was something incredibly refreshing about it though. He felt normal again, a young boy who had naught but sword practice with his brother to worry over, instead of a roaming army and its impending battles.

And therein laid the reason he could not smile. Tomorrow he would be gone, that army of his marching further west to some other village at the base of some other hill, while she remained. The bastard girl who slept with a king. He was not sure if that left her better off or worse.

"You think too loud." There was a ghost of a smile on her face when she looked up at him. In the firelight, her eyes were dark but somehow they still held that power. It rendered him speechless a moment. Her smile widened, revealing her dimples. "I could probably tell you what is on your mind."

Feylin began to trace imaginary lines against his skin. He enjoyed the feeling, like she did not quite know what to make of him and was exploring, as if they had not done enough so already. He had memorized her every detail, each curve and imperfection, every scar, how perfectly her body fit flush against his. He knew every touch he was allowed, and especially the one he was not. No matter what the mood, she would giggle if he touched her stomach. It only tempted him to do so more often.

Robb grabbed her hand, slowly massaging one of her knuckles with his thumb. "Then tell me."

She frowned in concentration, her eyebrows knitting together to create a look he might have called cute if it did not result in a slap – to be honest, it probably would have been worth it – and then she gently placed a kiss on his shoulder. Her lips were not the full, red things that were sought after, but he had enjoyed every moment they were in contact with his. Their touch burned in a way he found to be good, desirable.

"You are thinking about the war," she said, kissing him again a little further up. "About all the battles." Another kiss. "About leaving tomorrow." Another. "And what it will bring."

She would be able to read him so easily, but as she brought one final kiss down upon the crook between his neck and shoulder, remaining there as though she had no more to say, Robb suddenly realized that for once she might not know everything.

He placed a kiss of his own on her brow, whispering against her skin, "About leaving you."

Feylin tensed and Robb knew he had spoken of the wrong thing. She sat up and turned away, facing the fire, her silhouette glowing on the edges to give her an inhuman quality. As he propped himself up on his elbow, lying casually on his side, Robb noticed her shoulders shaking. A Lannister might have shoved a spear through his chest at that moment and it would have hurt less.

It was never meant to go as far as it had. Their first meeting should have been the last, but when he saw her tending to the wounded, he could not resist speaking to her. Feylin had said her 'Your Graces' then and avoided his gaze like a well behaved commoner, having learned his proper identity. She still had mud stains on her dress from when she had dropped to her knees and begged the King's forgiveness for her transgressions, offering anything to atone for it. That had entertained Theon well enough. Robb found himself missing her wit, missing the brief moment when she had thought him no more than another man out to take advantage of her like his friend. What Theon would think if he saw them now.

Grey Wind had brought them together another time. His ever faithful Direwolf had found her alone in the woods picking mushrooms. Her shriek might as well have alerted the entire army to her location. She shook like a leaf before him, but Grey Wind had simply sniffed at her, like he had found a new plaything. It almost made him laugh seeing them next to one another. She could nearly ride him if she wanted. Of course, he did no such thing – well, perhaps a small chuckle – but instead played hero, sweeping in to rescue the damsel in distress, or at least that was how she put it, with a 'Your Grace' at the end to make it less of an insult and more of a putting him in his place. He was glad her wit had returned, and said as much.

They had spoken often afterwards, mostly of little things in quiet places, fleeting moments enveloped by the bleak landscape of war. He mentioned his gods once and she brought up hers. Their names were water and yeast, wheat and corn. That was what brought him to her door one evening, with enough food for her to brave saying the word feast. He met her father then, a half blind man that had deeply loved her mother and the little bastard girl she bore. Robb had once thought no man could be as great as his father, but this aging peasant who constantly sang the Foreign King's praises for the bounty was in good contention. The man may not have been a lord but Robb would have held him higher than most any day.

That evening was the first time he saw Feylin smile, and gods how he had wanted to see it again.

And that brought them to this moment. Even now he could not remember how it all happened. He had come to see her and they had played their little game with words. There was a mention of the army leaving and pained looks from both sides, then everything was a flurry of torn clothing and flesh, bed sheets and sweat, and a new kind of battle their tongues had never experienced. For a brief time, they were not two beings but one and in those moments, Robb felt things for her that he should not have.

Rational thought had not returned to him until well after they had committed the act, but still the guilt did not hit him as he enjoyed the feel of her legs tangled around his, her fingers roaming lazily through his curls, his hand tracing the curve of her spine as he noted how thin she truly was. No, it only came now as he watched her, as well as a thought that had been slowly growing in his mind.

He sighed. "I don't want to leave."

Her shoulders sank but became still. "That's very kind, Your Grace."

Now she _had_ slapped him. "I am serious."

"And yet you will leave all the same. I'm no halfwit. I know you can't stay." She sounded on the verge of sobbing. Inwardly, Robb cursed himself. He wished someone would shove a spear through him. It was only half of what he deserved. In that moment, he felt Theon a better man. The Greyjoy gave no empty promises or spoke of impossible fancy. He had always thought his friend the cold one but perhaps it had been him the entire time.

Despite it all, he could not help himself. "But would you want me to?"

She was silent for a very long time, shoulders sinking lower as the moments passed. Finally she whispered, "More than anything."

He crawled up behind her then, wrapping both his arms around her small frame. Her hands grasped at his wrists while he placed slow kisses on her neck and shoulder, enjoying the sounds of pleasure that flowed from her lips. She turned to face him then, her glistening green eyes causing him to freeze in place. Reaching up, her fingers traced the outline of his jaw, her skin feeling soft against the coarseness of his beard. She lightly grabbed his chin, bringing his mouth down to hers. He soon became lost in her taste and touch, and not even the strongest waves of guilt could stop him.

They made love three more times that night, each one filled with more desperation and passion than the last. Near the end of it all, they spoke like they always had, of simple things, whispers in the dark that he would not forget as long as he lived. Once his hand brushed over her stomach and Feylin broke into a fit of laughter. It was a beautiful sound. He only wished it was not so sad.

"I would take you with me," he said once.

"As what?" she asked, her eyes serious. "Women like me are lovers and whores. We are not wives…and we are not queens."

They spoke nothing more of it. Feylin was right, as she always had been. Robb wished that she was not. He wished that he could take her to a godswood or a sept and speak those words to her, make her his forever so that her honor would remain intact as well as her heart, and his as well. But he did not say these things to her. They would be his burdens alone.

Dawn rose all too quickly, veiled in fog and goaded on by the sounds of warhorses and soldiers stirring in the distance. They said their goodbyes amidst clattering armor and shouted orders, the smell of smoke as fires were put out and the distant signs of rain. Robb wished it would storm. Let the gods give them one more night.

Feylin crossed her arms, looking westward. "The next village keeps a store of gold for the Lannisters in a small cave. Don't let them tell you otherwise."

Robb blinked. Here he had thought she was done surprising him, but it seemed she had only just begun. She smiled at him and shook her head, like he was a little boy who understood nothing. Maybe that was exactly what he was.

"I had to pay for your services somehow."

He chuckled. "Oh, is that all I am?"

She stepped forward, straightening a piece of his armor. "You are…as much as you want to be, Your Grace. Don't let them forget that."

Their smiles faded, the moment of jest gone. Feylin continued to tug uselessly at the armor until his hands closed around hers. He kissed her then, one final time, so deeply and so long that for a moment he misplaced himself. They were no longer in the Westerlands on the road to war. He was back home in Winterfell. Bran was running with Summer, and Jon and Theon were sparring in the courtyard. Arya was annoying Sansa like she usually did, and Rickon was trying to ride Shaggydog. His mother looked on with a smile and so did his father. And she was there too. Feylin was with him; Feylin was home.

And then all too soon it was over.

Robb mounted his horse then, watching solemnly as Grey Wind gave Feylin his own goodbye in the form of licking her palm.

"I'll come back," he said to her, desperate to avoid how absolute it all seemed.

She gave him one last smile, the pain obvious in her eyes. "No, you won't."

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There was a fire that night in the hills, lighting up the sky like he had never seen. The scouts reported it was raiders. Not everyone in the Westerlands welcomed him with open arms, and this was how they treated those who did. There would be nothing left of her village come morning.

Theon had turned to him with wary eyes, wondering what he might do. In his head, Robb saw himself smashing every object within reach, cursing the gods and the Lannisters both for destroying everything, but he did no such thing. The King In The North only walked back to his tent with a grave façade and a heavy heart.

No, he would not be coming back.

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Oneshot or not?

Thanks for reading!


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